


Dissonance

by deadcellredux



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Burnplay, Cigarettes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vicious’ mouth tastes like smoke; the pressure of combined breath is like a warm, dark atmosphere contained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XII. Prompt was "ashes".

When Vicious pushes the smoldering orange tip of his cigarette into Gren’s chest, Gren welcomes it as he welcomes Vicious’ tongue in his mouth, wet pressure just as hot against the groan rising muffled from Gren’s throat. Gren welcomes this, because on Titan it is as much an admission of catharsis and life as it is one of possession of pain; reminders that they are still here, that they can still feel.

Vicious’ mouth tastes like smoke; the pressure of combined breath is like a warm, dark atmosphere contained. Gren feels Vicious’ fingers pressing indents into his skin in the same way that Gren has pressed his own fingers against keys, and the notes of sound Vicious’ touch elicits are like a song Gren can’t place, a melody vintage and new at once. In that moment, in that sound, all illusions shatter like a scorpion’s carapace, invisible blades though each man’s center, lines dividing everything.

When Vicious clutches fast to Gren’s hair, bites Gren’s flesh and whispers _Julia_ , the name is heavy in his mouth like the feel of whiskey aged in oak barrels. Gren knows his body is nothing more than a vessel serving a purpose, nothing more than a sack of shell-shocked flesh pushed against the rocks and dust. Hyperion passes them in orbit; Gren stares past Vicious’ face to watch it. If Vicious’ eyes were to open, Gren thinks they’d glow like surrogate suns lighting the surface of the planet.

When Vicious fucks Gren, it is a bestial ritual of limbs and mouths and pain, vulgarities and sweat. Somehow the movements are easy; it _happens_ as if it were meant to, born from some dark pit of human nature that Vicious seems to embrace while Gren teeters on reluctance, regret; knowing _desire_ wasn’t born from that darkness. Gren comes, and he hates it—Vicious’ hand around Gren’s cock, moving hard, fast, commanding obedience to the effects of his touch. A _no_ stutters itself on Gren’s lips but it is too late; he bites his lip as he releases himself to Vicious, the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Gren feels the slick warmth of his own come on his stomach, the strange sensation of Vicious coming inside him mingling with the dull pain there, and Gren learns in that moment that _need_ has nothing to do with _want_.

Years from now Gren will sit alone and remember sex, experiments, pills of all sizes and colors scratching down against the back of his throat. Remember, and think how now he really _could_ be Julia, theoretically; wonders if Vicious knows exactly what he’s done, wonders if Vicious would like Gren like this, grab Gren’s tits and bite his nipples until they’re bruised and sore. If Vicious would do that to Julia, if he _has_ done it. Julia. Whoever she is.

Years from now, when Gren puts the mouthpiece of his saxophone between his lips and plays a melody learned from the tinny chirps of a music box, it is not the bland wood of the reed he tastes. It is the dry crush of ashes.


End file.
